


We’ll Rewrite Our Pasts To Weave Our Futures

by Zayrastriel



Series: Rewritten [2]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies RPF, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/F, F/M, RPF, au set in 2019/2020, comic angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-07
Updated: 2012-09-07
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:15:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zayrastriel/pseuds/Zayrastriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, they seriously wonder how they ended up here.<br/>Or: Bree scores with Agent Hill after some inadvertent help from Tony, and Lia gets a ball in her honour, a welcome holiday, and has a surprisingly unawkward conversation with a former Capsicle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We’ll Rewrite Our Pasts To Weave Our Futures

**Author's Note:**

> No idea what happened.  
> Main plot starts moving next part.

**April 2020, Kabul, Afghanistan**

Tony listens to Bree berate him for the umpteenth time as he stands there, exhausted and disgustingly sweaty in his armour _despite_ the amount of times he’s tried to install ventilation or air conditioning.  Part of him is vaguely impressed at how Hill’s essentially managed to get Bree to do her work for her.  Most of him is fucking _exhausted_.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” he asks when Bree inhales (after about ten minutes, and maybe she isn’t actually human, and instead a tiny robot, he has to get JARVIS to check it out sometime), “like, you know, actual journalism?  Or does that not happen anymore?”

“Fuck you,” she snaps. 

“Oh come on,” Tony sighs, “it’s not like I didn’t save the day.  Like I always do, so you can write about it.”

“Because saving the day really had to involve blowing up _half of the city_.”

Tony shrugs, because he can’t deny that.  But – “come on, it’s an ugly city anyway,” he reasons.  “All the mosques are still standing, and no one actually _died_ , and aren’t _you_ meant to be doing the lecture of the day anyway?” he adds, turning slightly to glance at Maria before looking back at Bree.  “Or do you just do everything for her because she’s hot?” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Maria’s fingers twitch like she’s itching to wrap them around his throat (not that it’d work, because of the whole armour thing, but still.)

Bree hesitates slightly but recovers quickly. “Um, no, it’s because you’re annoying.”

Which is, again, probably true, but he’s fucking _sweaty and exhausted and annoyed_.

Later, Tony totally blames those three things for what he says next.  “Yeah, but at least I know how to tell when someone’s not into me.  There’s a difference between being persistent and a brat, you know.”

He says that about one second before the message reaches his mouth that he’s not allowed to say what he just said.

_Oops._

Bree freezes, looking stricken.

 Maria looks like she wants to slap him in the face. 

Fuck, _he_ wants to slap him in the face, and that only happens when he’s hungover and drunk at the same time, or when he’s been an absolute bastard instead of just a regular bastard with dashing good looks and cutting wit.

He feels like an absolute bastard.  “Look, I-“

“You are actually a complete douche.”

The word _douche_ sounds strange coming out of Bree’s mouth in her high voice.

It still cuts because yeah, he sort of is.  Nevertheless, “I-“

“Like seriously,” she continues relentlessly, “did you have to go to a special school for that, or were you like actually born that way?”

“I-“ he tries again in a lull (probably a pause for dramatic effect rather than expectation of an actual answer) but this time, it’s Maria who cuts him short, eyes wide with alarm.

“Stark, _behind you_!”

He turns his head in the direction she’s looking and sees an olive-skinned man, dirty and unkempt with eyes wild and determined, pointing a fucking short-range missile directly at his face.  Too late, Tony tries to close his helmet; but he sees the man’s finger move, feels the technology around him shift too slowly.

Let it never be said that Starks face their deaths bravely – his eyes squeeze closed, an instinctive muscle twitch born purely of fear-

 _Bang_!

His eyes open slowly, one at a time.  The man’s lying prone on the ground, something ominous and red leaking from his chest.  The gun/missile thing’s next to him, trigger unpulled.

“Wow,” Tony says.  “Um.  Wow.”

“Anyway, as I was saying,” Bree continues like she didn’t just _shoot someone in the chest_ , “you are a douche.  A real douche.  And-“

“I’m sorry, did you just _shoot someone in the chest_?” Tony asks, and it feels surreal saying that, despite the fact that Bree’s got what looks like a short-range missile gun of her own held in both hands.

“No, you idiot, it’s a paintball gun,” is the snapped reply.  “I don’t use guns, I’m a _journalist_.  A douche who needs to learn that you can’t just be obnoxious…”

He glances back at the body and feels like an moron for not realising that the red is too vivid to be real blood.

“…all the time without-“

“Thank you,” Tony says abruptly.  “Like, really.  Thank you.  And.  Um.  I’m sorry.  And thank you,” because if he’s never going to say it again he might as well be profuse.

She blinks, thrown off-guard by what he thinks might be his first sincere apology/expression of gratitude in ages.

Tony’s about to turn to Maria, say something obnoxious and completely true about how much she needs to go get into bed with Bree like right now.

But Maria’s looking at Bree with a speculative expression of _interesting/that was unexpected and strangely hot/we should have sex now_ , one that Tony knows  Pepper’s directed at him when they were together and even now, afterwards, and he’s pretty sure the journalist doesn’t need help in that department.

“We should get back to New York,” Bree says shortly, not noticing the way Maria’s looking at her as she stows the gun _somewhere_ in a bag that looks about half the size of the gun.  “I’ve got write this report, you know, being a _journalist_ and all.”

“Isn’t there the promotional ball tonight?” Maria asks quietly, almost hesitantly – and okay, that is more than a little bizarre, because Tony’s never seen Maria hesitant except in front of Fury (and for a very, _very_ (he hopes) different reason.)  “To celebrate the new PR campaign?”

Bree shrugs.  “Not going.”

“Oh.”  Another look crosses Maria’s face, another one that Tony recognises from Pepper, a sort of _I know what I want and I think I know how to get it_ , “that’s a shame.  Since, you know, I was hoping you could pick me up at six.”

There’s something comical about watching every single one of someone’s muscles spasm as they’re about to straighten.  In this case, it’s followed by a series of heavy, choking gasps that sound like Bree’s about to die of self-asphyxiation by her own surprise.  “I- _what_?”

“At six,” Maria repeats doggedly.  “I don’t have a car,” she adds, when Bree straightens but doesn’t look any more comprehending.

 _Smooth_. 

Bree’s eyes are wide with a bizarre mix of confusion, hope, panic, and more confusion.  “But.  Um.  I don’t have a-“

“Use one of mine,” Tony offers smoothly, because this is funny but he’s still dying of sweat and he needs out of this suit _soon_.  Kabul is not cool at the best of times, and it’s nearing summer now.  “One of the limos.  I never use them anyway.”

That’s true – it’s not that he doesn’t use limos, it’s just that he can’t use all fifteen at the same time. 

“But I can’t dri-“

Alright, that’s it.  Tony wants New York, and his tower, and clothes that aren’t made of refined quadruple layered metal.  “Of course, the dress, how could I be so stupid, have my driver, have all of them, at the same time, do you want two cars each, it’s settled Lao pick up Hill at six _can we go now_.”

 

~

 

**New York City, United States of America, the same day**

They’re holding a _ball_.  A real ball.  Captain America – Steve fucking Rogers – is going to be there.  Tony Stark – _Iron Man_ – is going to be there.  Some of the actors she’s been quietly fantasising about fucking since she was sixteen are going to be there.

A _ball_.

Because she made a PR and recruitment campaign that looked vaguely pretty.

This is beyond surreal and all the way into alternate reality.

Lia wanted to be an astronomer once.  She sort of wishes she’d done that.  Stars and black holes might be huge and dangerous and complex, but at least she doesn’t have to talk to them.  And she’s almost positive they don’t hold balls for successful PR campaigns.

As she rounds the corner, Lia almost walks straight into Director Fury.

_Shit. Shit.  Stay calm, stay calm, be cool, you can do this._

“Oh my god, sorry!” she exclaims, voice high-pitched and sharp with an edge of terror.

_Oh yeah, that was cool.  Totally._

Fury gives her an appraising look, gazes hard at her face like he’s examining every pore of her skin, every pimple, and then looks down, all the way down to her battered sneakers because she’s not actually in for work today, just here to get her clearance pass for the ball.

 _Oh god, he’s judging me_.

“Miss Guan.”

“Um.  Yep.”  Once again, Lia’s trying for cool and misses it by half a mile.

He stares at her, expression giving nothing away.  “You’ve probably had a lot of people come up to you,” he says slowly.  “They’ve probably been telling you that you’ve been doing a good job.  Maybe even a great job.”

Oh god, she’s dead, she’s going to die.  “Um.  Yes?” Lia squeaks.

Fury sizes her up again, then nods briefly.  “They’re right.  Good work, Miss Guan.  Keep it up.”

Lia waits till the Director’s been gone for at least five minutes before she collapses to the ground like she’s run a marathon, ignoring the curious looks cast in her direction.

 _I’m alive.  I AM ALIVE_.

“I am alive,” she mutters over and over again.

“Err,” a young, muscly guy that she almost walks into says, gripping her arm loosely.  “Are you alright?”

Lia grins manically at him.  “I’m alive!” she announces.  ‘Have a nice day!”

She’s halfway home when she realises that was Captain America.

 _Fuck_.

 

~

 

“I don’t know what to wear,” Bree announces.

Kate exhales heavily.  “So you aren’t going for any of the twenty dresses you’ve just tried on?” she asks, just to make sure – it’s always possible that Bree’ll one day reach the point of actually being able to decide what to wear on dates.

“What, it wasn’t twenty.  More like…” Bree trails off, starts counting on one hand.  After a few seconds she raises the other.  After a few more, she frowns.

“Nineteen,” she decides finally.  “But that’s not twenty!”

Kate sighs again.  It’s not like she was expecting anything different; definitely not after the way Bree collapsed on the doormat inside the house and sat curled up against the door for a good hour, whispering what sounded like _Maria asked me out_ and _Tony Stark isn’t actually a douche_ under her breath.

She’s almost positive she misheard the second one, though.

“That’s it,” she decides.  “You’re wearing the short white one.  You’re going to put it on.  I’m going to do your hair.  I’m going to do your make up.  And then you’re going to go and get into the car, and pick up your date, and have awesome sex at her house because I have an audition tomorrow and I need to sleep.”

Bree doesn’t object, though Kate’s not actually sure she heard any single part of that monologue.

 _It’s a good thing Maria’s hot_ , Kate thinks to herself, and she can’t bring herself to really be annoyed.

 

~

 

Lia wishes, not for the first time, that she’d pre-drunk.  A lot.  Every time she’s about to drink here, she’s painfully aware of Director Fury standing in the corner of the room, painfully _present_.

Really though, the whole thing isn’t _that_ bad.  Everyone’s been really nice, and after they showed the main part of the recruitment campaign video, she got lots of applause.  She got even more when Fury informally told her she was getting the next three months _off_ work, paid holiday leave for the effort she put in.  There are still people coming up to her, constant enough that she’s never left alone long enough to feel like a complete weirdo standing by herself.

 _I should have just done what Ara said and brought her as a date_ , she thinks miserably, scanning the room for someone to talk to.  She’d go and talk to Bree but Bree looks…occupied.

(By which she means that Bree’s currently about two inches on the _hot-kissing-scale_ from tongue sex with Agent Maria Hill.) 

 

~

 

Steve’s been meaning to talk to Miss Guan for a while, but it seems that everywhere he turns he’s being bombarded by _people_ – by questions, alternately sensitive and brash almost to the point of rudeness.  It's understandable, he supposes; it’s the first real social event he’s been to since he woke up.  But he hates it – hated it back in the 40s, hates it now.

There’s a lull finally, though, and he makes his way over to her.  “Um, hello, Miss Guan,” Steve says shyly, tapping her on the shoulder tentatively to get her attention (he still isn’t sure that doing that is okay, touching women in such a casual way.  But he does it anyway.)

“Oh my god, Captain Rogers,” Miss Guan gasps as she turns, looking painfully apologetic and tearful; he feels his eyes widen in alarm.  “I’m so sorry about earlier today, seriously.”

For a moment Steve has no idea what she’s talking about, but then he remembers – remembers the repeated _I’m alive_ thing that was more than a little bizarre.  “Don’t worry about it, Miss Guan,” he says politely.  “Though If it’s alright, can I ask why you were…um…”

“What, cuckoo?”  Miss Guan grins – not in the half-insane way she did before, but with a genuine sort of amusement.  “Yeah, really sorry about that.  It’s just that Fury’s sort of…” She trails off, makes a vague gesture with her hand.

“Terrifying?” he suggests, smiling back.

She nods fervently.  “Oh, _yeah_ ,” she sighs. 

“By the way,” she adds, “call me Lia, seriously, Miss Guan makes me feel really old.”

“Lia,” he tests out the name.  “Alright.  I’m Steve.”

Miss Guan – _Lia_ – smiles broadly.  “Nice to meet you, Steve.”

They fall into silence for a long moment.

Finally, it’s her who breaks it.  “Enjoying the ball?”

Steve’s about to answer with something generic – _of course_ , or _it’s nice_ , or even _it’s alright_ – but something in her tone indicates she’s genuinely asking, and not just out of politeness.  “No,” he says frankly.  “I hate things like this.  Always have.  Even back when…” _Back when I was alive, really alive, not just breathing and moving around_.

She sighs.  “Yeah.  I guess that makes sense.  I dunno, this is all just…it’s all just really surreal.  A ball in my honour, sure, I can roll with that, I’m totally awesome enough for that.”  Lia smiles to indicate it’s a joke, and he smiles back uncertainly.  “But like, PR?  Really _not_ what I saw myself doing when I was younger.”

“What did you want to do?”

“I’d say astronomer,” she says with a slight laugh, “I mean, astronomy is really cool.  But…I suppose I really wanted to be a singer.  I love musicals – saw Phantom of the Opera twice in 2008-“ She breaks off, frowning.  “Sorry, don’t know if you’ve heard of that, it’s a musical from the-“

“The 1980s,” Steve finishes for her.  “Yeah.  I liked it.”

“Yeah.  Well.  Yeah, that’s what I wanted to do.”

Another silence.

“So, what are you going to do with your three months off?” Steve asks, deciding it’s his time to ask the question.

She shrugs.  “Travel, probably.  Maybe go back to Australia, maybe to Egypt – that’d be awesome – maybe France or Spain, I don’t know.  Maybe Germany, though I’m not sure-“

“You should,” he says roughly, too roughly, because now he’s remembering the war, remembering the camps and the dead and beautiful old churches being blown to smithereens, the suffering and the anguish of being _human_.  “You…You should go to Germany.  To Auschwitz.  To Dresden.”

When Steve looks across at Lia he sees her already gazing at him, suddenly serious.

“I will,” and it feels like a promise, not just to him but to the dead, to the living who survived but not with their souls intact, to the boys who became men under splashes of blood and the sounds of amputations.

**TBC**


End file.
